


The Truth Hurts

by Kizzywiggle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Mary can't be trusted, Mary is BAMF anyway, Melodrama and not even a hint of realism..., Other, Please see summary for warnings, Pregnancy, Traumatic birth, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary shows her true colours, with disastrous consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> ***TRIGGER WARNINGS***  
> This fic contains a moderately graphic birth, and it doesn't go well.
> 
> I did research this while writing and tried not to be gratuitous or disrespectful of the subject matter, whilst still allowing for dramatic tension and story needs.
> 
> If you are likely to be distressed reading a fic where a birth goes very, very wrong, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS.

“I’m a _liar_ , John.”

Mary’s face was...not cold, nor angry, more...blase. Emotionless. Uncaring. John stared at her, eyes wide, and shoved a hand through his hair. “I know, I mean, well, I’d come to terms with your past, Mary, but _this_?” He swallowed and looked past Mycroft, past the wicked sharp knife his _wife_ held at his best friend’s brother’s _throat_ , for Christ’s sake, and into Mary’s eyes.

They were icy, that pale, gemlike blue he loved, or thought he had, but now he saw also that they were quite simply cold… John swore quietly and tried to think how to work this out without anybody dying.

“I say,” observed Mycroft in that snidely upper-crust voice of his, “Your baby just kicked me, Mary. In the _back_. Isn’t it crass to train up a thug _In Utero_ , as it were? She’s taking after her mother already!” He winced as Mary tensed minutely and a whisper of red sprang from the edge of her blade to trickle with devastating slowness towards Mycroft’s impeccably starched collar. 

“Shut it, you,” she snarled, and tightened the hand in Mycroft’s hair to pull his head back, lengthening and exposing his jaw with the strong, pulsing thump of his carotid artery clearly visible. He was bent back nearly double to accommodate Mary’s smaller height and the girth of her nearly-forty-week pregnancy, discomfort marring his sneering features and causing sweat to glitter on his high brow. It should have looked almost comical from a purely aesthetic perspective, but the lack of feeling on Mary’s worried John; he knew that she could be beyond ruthless in pursuit of a goal, and was probably the most lethal person he knew - and he’d ‘known’ Moriarty.

“Right, so, Mary - what do we do now?” John asked his wife. “I mean, you’ve got Mycroft, for whatever reason, and we are in Sherlock’s flat of all places, so there’s an excellent chance of Sherlock or Mrs Hudson or any one of about five members of the Metropolitan Police just marching in at any minute like they own the place…?” He trailed off and shrugged. “Just saying.” 

“We are going for a drive,” Mary informed him. “I’ll put my blade away, you’ll clean his neck up, and his lovely, discreet car will take us on a short trip.” She lowered the knife, whipping it quickly to kidney height when Mycroft made to move too fast. “The plan is a relatively painless stab to your throat, Mycroft, severing your carotid, bringing unconsciousness and death quite quickly, but I can and will go for any internal organs within my reach and a lingering, painful death if you try anything stupid, believe me.”

“Quite,” snapped Mycroft.

John quickly mopped up the blood from Mycroft’s neck - luckily it was so shallow as to be barely even a cut, and the blood hadn’t reached Mycroft’s collar - and then grabbed his jacket before preceeding the other two out of the door and carefully helping his very pregnant wife down the flat’s steep stairs to ground level. “Why are you helping her, John?” enquired Mycroft with no more than the faintest tinge of curiosity, “She wants to kill me.”

“I’m more than familiar with the urge!” snapped John, as they reached the lower floor. “And despite this situation, she _is_ pregnant with my daughter, Mycroft!” He didn’t know why he was justifying himself, Mycroft had only ever really seen John as a tool for manipulating Sherlock. A scruffy means to an inelegant end. Of anyone, John thought that Mycroft should understand Mary’s reasons best of all. _Maybe my only value to others is my proximity to people they want_ he mused sadly, then shook himself out of it. This was no time to get all maudlin, he needed to stay alert and look for an opportunity to end this madness. He and Mary left the flat, standing aside and letting Mycroft pass them to signal the waiting car.

They settled on the comfortable upholstery; Mycroft nearest the road; Mary in the middle, knife hidden but ready; John on the kerb-side - the car was for once an Anthea-free zone - and Mary whispered an instruction to Mycroft, who arched a brow and called out, “Epping Forest,” to the driver. Well-used to his boss’s vagaries, the driver nodded and raised the soundproof privacy screen before indicating and pulling into the traffic, steering smoothly between buses, taxis and suicidal cycle couriers. After about ten minutes Mary said, “Right. Now we can talk.”

Both men looked at her, and she smiled; a slow, nearly serene smile. “What? No questions? From either of you?” 

John couldn’t think of a thing to say that wasn’t trite in the extreme, so he kept quiet and observed his wife. He was angry and hurt, obviously, but he’d also noticed her skin was pale, her breathing irregular, and she appeared to be in pain. He was worried. 

Mycroft, of _course_ had no compunctions about peppering Mary with questions. “At the risk of being unoriginal; why are you doing this? Why Epping Forest, of all places? What do you think you’ll do...after…? What about your _husband_ , Mary?”

She ticked off the answers on not-quite-steady fingers, John noted.

“Because I have been paid exceedingly well to do so, of course. Epping Forest because it’s no stranger to bodies turning up. And afterwards I will take my pay and retire fully and finally; this time my alias is ironclad and I will be so well hidden even Sherlock won't find me. And John…? Ah, John.” Mary looked at John and for the first time he saw maybe a glimmer of...regret? She smiled. “John can come with me if he wishes. I'd like him to. I have an identity ready for him, as well. And the baby.” She caressed the mound of her pregnancy unconsciously. “If he doesn’t, things will have to be slightly less idyllic, though. I’m sorry, John.”

John laughed bitterly. “So my choices are: I can stand by while you murder Mycroft and then vanish with you, or what? You’ll kill me?”

“Probably, yes,” Mary replied. It’s not personal, John, it’s _work_.” Her voice was so patient, like a mother explaining for the umpteenth time that no, knives weren’t toys… John didn’t understand how she could be so, so...calm about it. No matter how many times John had stared death in the face (and you think it’d be boring or even routine by now), no matter how often it had been his finger on the trigger, his call whether someone lived or died, he’d ever quite managed to divorce himself from the _intimacy_ of death, of killing. No matter whether he was firing a gun or holding a patient's hand as life slipped away, he almost felt it was his duty to be fully present. Mary, it seemed, held no such ideals. Her gaze was clear and untroubled as she kept Mycroft controlled with little more than her will. John was distracted from this somewhat maudlin line of thought when she rubbed the side of her belly and grimaced. “Ahhhh…!” She inhaled painfully, holding the breath as her pupils dilated. Immediately Doctor John booted Heartbroken Husband John and I’m-in-a-car-with-an-assassin-who-happens-to-be-my-very-pregnant-wife John off to the side.

“What’s the matter, Mary? Is it the baby?”

She puffed her breath out crossly. “Just Braxton-Hicks contractions,” she answered. “They’ve been happening on and off all week. That one was just a little sharper than the others.” Mary glared at John when he took her wrist, searching for the pulse there and counting silently. After a minute he released her.

“Your heart rate is elevated. As you’re an experienced assassin-slash-liar, I presume that kidnapping Himself,” he nodded to Mycroft sarcastically, “Isn’t the cause. How regular are the Braxton-Hicks coming?”

Mary thought. “Not often, maybe every ten minutes? But only for the last couple of hours and I don't think they're worsening. Don't fuss!”

He ignored her. “How strong are they? How would you rate the pain?”

“They’re stronger than yesterday, John, but you know this is normal for late pregnancy, you’re a bloody doctor!”

“Yes, I _am_ a bloody doctor, Mary, and I believe there's a good chance you're in early labour.” He was proud of how calm his voice was: Imminent Father John was rocking in a corner and gibbering, having just enough of Doctor John’s knowledge to understand that this situation was Very Not Good Indeed. Mycroft let loose a bark of laughter. “Oh, this is just _precious_ ,” he drawled. “My assassin in labour! How déclassé!”

“Shut it, Mycroft,” said Mary idly. “I can off you in the car, it just means more clean-up.” She paled and exhaled sharply.

John unclipped his seatbelt so he could turn and press his hands to Mary’s belly, but he couldn’t feel through her heavy coat. He unbuttoned it and pushed it aside to cup a hand on either side of the bump, palpating gently. She gasped and tried to twist away from his hands. “Get off of me, John!” WIth another gasp, she stiffened, and John felt the contraction roll across her abdomen, tightening it to brick-like hardness before relaxing again. He noted the time on his watch and distracted her. 

“Was the grand reconciliation a sham, Mary? Have you ever loved me?” He hadn’t wanted to ask that, didn’t truthfully want the answers, but he was fairly certain Mary had begun established labour and needed to monitor her without her interference.

“It was,” she replied. “Sorry, John. I received the instructions for Mr Snotty here while I was staying with his parents.” There wasn't a glimmer of shame in those cool blue eyes, and John dies a little inside.

“Sherlock owes me ten pounds!” said a delighted Mycroft, apparently unconcerned that Mary had begun plotting his death whilst receiving devoted TLC from his mum and dad. _Unfeeling git_ thought John, gobsmacked. “Not that there’s overmuch chance of me getting to collect it, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Both Watsons turned steely glares upon him, but Mycroft just shrugged. “One must take one’s pleasures where one can,” he said mildly.

The car turned off of the North Circular onto Woodford New Road, and immediately slowed as it hit domestic traffic. As they rolled slowly over a sunken manhole cover and the car jolted, Mary cried out again, her focus wavering from Mycroft as the pain shivered across her body. “That one was six minutes,” observed John. “You may need to shelve your plans for the day, Mary, I think our daughter has ideas of her own.”

A feral look passed over Mary's face so quickly John doubted he'd seen it, replaced with her unemotional mask once more. “I once made a hit, standing, on a broken leg,” she said. “Another time I stabbed a man in his femoral artery while he was strangling me and had to wait until he was dead to untangle myself from his garotte. I've poisoned a man and fucked the life from him while his body shut down.” She shivered pleasurably. “Giving birth is not going to stop me from making this hit, she can wait another hour or so.” She paled again and bit her lip.

Mary had another four contractions as the car made it’s way to Epping Forest. She appeared to John to have almost divorced her mind from her body, but her body knew it had a job to do and was doing it regardless. As the car stopped in a deserted car parking space and the chauffeur turned the engine off, Mary unclipped herself and leaned forward to tap on the glass divide. He opened it and she leaned forward, striking fast despite her belly and the pain, and stabbed the long, slim, spring-bladed knife attached to her wrist in and up at the base of his skull. There was a dull crunch as she angled the blade and the chauffeur's head drooped forward as he died. “Dear God,” Mycroft exclaimed, shutting up with a gagging sound as Mary slid the blade out and shook the blood off of it. She turned to John. “You out first, go round the car and let this one out.”

John felt sick as he followed her instructions, handing Mycroft from the car with shaking hands. He couldn't believe the monster he'd married, couldn't believe how well she'd hidden the depths of her depravity. Mycroft looked down at John with something he might have called sympathy, had it been on anybody else's face. “ _Courage, mon brave_ ,” he whispered, before straightening his waistcoat fussily and turning to Mary, who was leaning on the bonnet of the car with a hand pressed to the bump.

Her lower lip was white where her teeth bit into it, and her eyes were huge and dark as she puffed near-silently through the pain. Sensing the men’s eyes on her, Mary straightened and tried to style it out. She waved toward the trees. “That way, now.” When both men paused, she wearily pulled a small handgun from the small of her back beneath her coat and clicked the safety off calmly. “ _Now_.”

They walked beneath the ancient trees and deeper into the forest. Mary shuffled behind them, faint whimpers now coming from her in a steady stream. John out a hand on Mycroft's sleeve to stop him, and turned back to his wife...to Mary. “You need to stop,” he said calmly. “I think the baby is coming now, Mary. Let me check you, at least?”

“And what if she is? I've got a job to do, she can wai-aaaaaait!” Mary’s voice broke into a wail and she crumpled to the leafy ground, gun falling from her slack grip. John sprinted to her side, scooping up the gun and re-engaging the safety before handing it to Mycroft, who hovered in elegant confusion.

John laid Mary back. Her belly thrust up aggressively, and she arched, letting out a cry. He winced as she grabbed his arm. His hands, feeling like someone else was controlling them, moved her jumper and t-shirt up to expose her abdomen, moving across the taut surface with professional calm. “Mary, I need to check inside,” he said. “We need to know how far along your labour is. May I?” She groaned and nodded, straining again as another contraction rippled through her. John looked at Mycroft. “Are you able to help?”

Mycroft shifted, looking uncomfortable. “If I must,” 

“I need your jacket,” John said, removing his own and rolling up the sleeved of his shirt. Mycroft handed his jacket over and John patted the pockets, pulling out a slim flask. He uncapped it and poured a small amount of the - he sniffed, brandy? - over his hands, rubbing them together. “You’re such a cliché, Mycroft,” he said. “Lift up, Mary.” He slid Mycroft’s jacket beneath Mary's hips and pulled down her maternity jeans and underwear. Mycroft made a faintly revolted noise, and Mary laughed at him. 

“Will you still respect me when it's over?” she asked, baring her teeth in a pained grimace. 

Regaining some of his cool, Mycroft arched a brow. “You're presuming I ever _did_ , my dear,” he murmured.

“Oh, for-!” John looked up from his examination of Mary with a scowl for the both of them. “You're fully dilated,” he told her. In fact, I felt the baby’s head. We need to get you kneeling up: gravity will help. This is really too fast,” he fretted. “Can I get Mycroft to call an ambulance?” he asked his wife. Mary, hauling inelegantly to her side and up to her knees swore at him. He got her balanced. “For the baby, if not for you?” he begged. “This is a far-from-ideal circumstance, love,” 

Mary let out a short scream. “Whatever you want, John, just help me!” He threw a glance at Mycroft, who pulled out his mobile and dialled a far longer number than 999. “It’s me, scramble a team,” he ordered. John gabbled instructions which he relayed smoothly: “Primigravida, 39 weeks plus two, sudden onset very short labour.” Then he added, “Plus security and a clean-up team.” He hung up, shooting John a look. “They track me simply everywhere,” he drawled.

John was helping Mary pant through the contractions, one hand reassuringly on the small of her back. He unbuttoned his shirt single-handed pulling it off and ripping his t-shirt over his head before fumbling in his back pocket and pulling out a Swiss Army Knife, shoving it at Mycroft. “More brandy on that please,” he asked, although he didn't know what good it'd be. Mycroft obliged and John went back to panting through Mary's contractions with her. He learned back and checked between her legs. “I can see the head, Mary! Keep panting, push when you need to, I'm going to help our daughter get born!” She nodded and panted and groaned, rocking forth and back as her body took over.

The next few minutes were full of Mary's cries and curses and John's reassuring voice. He fell into a kind of trance, his entire being focused on getting his child born as well and as safely as possible in a forest with no equipment at all and only Mycroft's hovering, delicate confusion for support. Mary used her determination and strength to labour and in a ridiculously short space of time, her daughter was born, slipping into the world with very little ceremony. John caught her, feeling lightheaded and slightly surreal, looking at the red, wrinkled face of his firstborn. In one silent, shimmering moment, John knew his life had changed forever and despite everything he was suddenly, overwhelmingly happy. 

Mycroft's phone shrilled into the air, startling John. He quickly rubbed the baby down with his shirt, pleased that the rapid birth hadn't made her too shocked to breathe, and swaddled her in the soft fabric of his t-shirt. “Incoming, two minutes,” said Mycroft, quietly. “I say, John, should Mary look like that?”

Mary's face had drained of colour, and she collapsed onto her side, pulling at the umbilical as she did so, which snapped at the pressure. John swore viciously: he couldn't deal with both his ladies at once and Mycroft was next-to useless. “Get down here,” he barked. Mycroft was so shocked he obeyed. John thrust the baby at him. “Keep her close, rub her, keep her warm, and for God’s sake, _do not drop her_.” Mycroft wrapped himself around the baby, and odd look on his face as he held her, and John moved over to Mary.

She lay crumpled among the leaf litter, her face pale and her skin clammy. Her pulse beat threadily in the hollow of her jaw, and John felt his heart sink. Checking between her legs he saw she was bleeding too heavily. He thought the placenta had ruptured, and prayed desperately that the medical team arrived soon. Got her in a comfortable position and did what little he could to improve her prognosis, but with nothing more than a hip flask and a folding knife he couldn't do much worth the effort. He smoothed her sweaty hair away from her face and met her eyes. 

She was smiling.

“I'm sorry...John,” she whispered. “If I could have loved anyone, it would have been you, I promise.” She exhaled a shuddering breath and her face grew even paler, tinged a sickly grey.

“I did love you,” John told her. “I _do_.”

“You didn't read the memory stick, did you?” Mary asked.

“No. I promised.”

“You probably should have, you know. Your morals do keep getting...in the way…”

“Well, there's only me and Mrs H. to keep the rest of you honest,” he joked. “And I'm not sure about her!”

She smiled as suddenly the forest came alive with sound. A private paramedic team came into the clearing, two taking the baby from Mycroft and checking her over, two more taking over from John. They worked efficiently, and he was left in the role of husband, the protection of his doctor role stripped away, leaving him vulnerable.

“What will I do with you?” John asked softly. He felt tears welling and tried to fight them, but he knew things weren't good for Mary; such a short, sharp labour, especially past forty, and this amount of blood loss could be touch-and-go even in hospital. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, leaving his lips pressed there as hot tears dripped onto her face. “Oh, Mary…”

She reached up to cup his face. “Tell Sherlock he was right, but don't let him gloat. Apologise to Mycroft for me: it was just work. And...could you call the baby Agatha? Agatha Rachel?” At John's nod, she seemed to slip deeper into herself. “I really wish...wish…” she drew in a horrible, rattling breath and stiffened.

The paramedics gently moved John out of the way and began CPR, but he knew it was pointless. He stood, wiping at his eyes with the heels of both hands, and moved across to where his daughter was being checked over. The paramedics had tidied her umbilical cord and wrapped her in a silvery hypothermia blanket, and she cooed quietly, unaware of the drama surrounding her birth. Taking her from the paramedic, John looked down at his daughter's tiny face; long lashes, a rosebud mouth, and he fancied he saw a hint of her mother's determination in the set of her jaw. “Hello, Agatha,” he whispered. “I'm your dad.” And then the tears _really_ fell. It was Mycroft, of all people, who saw John safely home. Mrs H was there, concern all over her face, waiting with a pot of tea and a Moses basket waiting for Agatha. “I got some formula, and sterilised the bottles Mary bought,” she said, and took Aggie gently from him. “I'll feed her while you shower, love.”

When John returned, Aggie was fed and changed and tucked into her basket. Mycroft, also cleaned up, was there with Greg Lestrade firmlynholding onto his hand, and of course there was Sherlock. They all looked at him and John felt paralysed under the weight of their care. He stood, uncertain, waiting for his life to start making sense after the last few nightmarish hours, and closed his eyes hopefully, but when he opened them his living room was full of his friends but empty of his wife. He began to sob, and Mrs Hudson made a movement towards him, but of all people it was _Sherlock_ who was there first.

Long, spidery limbs wrapped around John like he was made of glass. One graceful hand came up to gently cradle John’s head and pushed it down to Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock hugged him so carefully - almost like he'd read up on How to Hug but wasn't sure if he was doing it right. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and calm and reassuring. “I've got you, John. _We’ve_ got you.” Aggie snuffled in her basket. “And the baby, too,” Sherlock said. He pulled back, and Mrs H moved in, enfolding John in a cloud of perfume and fussy hugs. Greg came and patted him on the back.

In the end it was naturally Mycroft who ended the love-in. “I'm sorry for your loss, John. We'll expedite the post mortem for you, but the paramedics concurred with your initial diagnosis of postpartum haemorrhage. Apparently such a rapid birth can be risky, that way. As for the other matters today, they will be handled quietly so you can bury your wife in peace. Sherlock is already working on discovering who put the hit on me, and that's where we'll put the blame for the death of my driver.”

John nodded once. “Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you, all of you.” He smiled weakly. “I suppose this is what I get for choosing to forgive an assassin, hey?” His tears dried in stiff trails on his face and he felt suddenly old. “Still,” he joked feebly, “It could be worse, I suppose…” 

Mrs Hudson clomped him gently on his bicep. “John Hamish Watson! Don't be such an idiot!” She rubbed at the non-existent injury and squeezed. “Now, about that cuppa…?”

***

The post mortem confirmed Mary died of haemorrhage, and a per Mycroft's promise, her part in the death of the chauffeur was buried before she was. John found a lovely plot for her to be buried in, in a fairly busy cemetery. “I know how you love people watching,” he whispered as her coffin was lowered into the earth.

****

And time passed. John moved back in with Sherlock, who actually adapted well to sharing his space with a baby. He read up on childrearing and could often be heard exclaiming “Ridiculous! She's a baby, not a robot!” before he threw another book across the room. He loved to play his violin for Aggie, who would watch with solemn bright blue eyes as he poured music into her ears and her brain. He concocted weird and wonderful purees for her to eat once she began weaning, and between him and Mrs Hudson, Aggie was never lonely or bored once John returned to work at the surgery. Sherlock was even eventually persuaded _not_ to keep his experiments in the fridge with Maggie's formula, and moved all of the dead people parts into a spare fridge at Bart's (much to Molly's delight).

****

Mycroft’s hit had been ordered by a veritable conglomeration of disgruntled criminals, but Sherlock quickly had enough information to tear them down from the inside, and Mycroft took them apart piece by tiny piece until nothing remained. 

****

John didn't recover overnight, or even soon, and he often woke from dreams of Mary chasing his friends through bloody forests, light gleaming from the blades of her many, many knives. His worst dreams were the ones where Aggie didn't make it, either, and her broken-hearted sobs chased him through his sleep. But time passed, bringing with it a measure of healing, and by the time Aggie was a bright, precocious eighteen-month-old toddling about 221b, John finally felt he'd achieved a fragile kind of peace with what happened.

****

Tucking Aggie into her pushchair, John walked slowly to the cemetery where Mary was buried. They purchased a bunch of sweet Williams, all raggedy and heady-perfumed, and made their way to Mary’s plot. John knelt and laid the flowers by her headstone. 

_Mary_

 _Beloved mother of Aggie_

 _

Wife of John

A.G.R.A

_

“I forgive you,” he said quietly. “I can't pretend to understand what you did or why, but you gave me Aggie, and for that I still love you. Even after everything. I hope you finally have peace, Mary. Sleep well, love.” 

“Dik’lus!” Shouted Aggie - she'd picked the word up from Sherlock and used it often and gleefully.

“You might be right,” John said with a small, tired smile. “Come on, madam, let's go home and see if Sherlock’s remembered dinner, shall we?”

“Dinner!” she crowed. “Dik’lus!”

“It's unlikely,” agreed her dad, “but we live in hope, don't we?” 

And the two of them made their way home to a place where Aggie never felt the loss of being motherless, but only knew that she was loved and precious, and to the place where she eventually grew up to be as loyal as her dad, as clever as her 'Lockie’, and as determined and cunning as her long-dead mum.


End file.
